


Twisting, Turning, Tumbling

by Shiruy



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Action/Adventure, Age Difference, Attempted Rape, Consent Issues, Consent is Sexy, Dubcon Kissing, Dubious Consent, F/M, Gore, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No Actual Knowledge of How MI6 Works, No DubCon With Alex/Yassen, Romance, Slow Burn, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2017-12-26 05:18:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/962055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiruy/pseuds/Shiruy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>100 Themes Challenge Yassen/Alex Style. It's an easy mission, they just need him to provide cover, he won't be in any danger... Yeah, right. As if that had ever been true before. Alex is so sick of this.</p><p>Complete rewrite of an old story. The old version can still be found on ffnet, but the new version here will have some significant changes in plot, scene order, etc. </p><p>-----</p><p>#1 - Introduction</p><p>Summary: Alex had a bad feeling about this. </p><p>Date: Dec. 29th - 4.30 pm, between #7 Heaven and #4 Dark (Timeline: http://shiruy.livejournal.com/3602.html)</p><p>Edited: 07.02.13<br/>-----</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Alex Rider and associated characters do not belong to me and I make no money with this story. This disclaimer covers this whole body of work.
> 
> Spoilers: This story contains spoilers all the way up through Crocodile Tears. The plot of Scorpia Rising is not included, though some of the events of the book may be used as inspiration for this story.
> 
> This is an ongoing project of mine. I’ve been working on it for several years and it’s undergone a number of revisions, plot changes, rewrites… I can’t promise regular updates (like, at all), but I can promise that I will always love Alex Rider and that sooner or later I will come back to my baby. (Also, chapter length will vary wildly. Who needs consistency anyway. XD)
> 
> Important: The chapters of this story are not in chronological order. They are not supposed to be read in chronological order. I put quite a bit of thought into when the reader gets to read this or that chapter, I promise it’s not random. Still, if it bothers you so much that you find yourself unable to read the story the way I intended it to be read, in the summary you will find a link to the timeline. You can find the chronological order for the chapters there.

 

Alex had a bad feeling about this.

Not that he ever had a good feeling about any of the missions he was forced to go on, but this time it was especially bad. In the file agent Barner had given him it had all sounded so straightforward – a German pharmaceutical company with some suspicious ties, a new drug suddenly being sold in the streets of almost every major European city, and a big company gala he and his partner were supposed to sneak into.

According to Mrs. Jones he wouldn't be in any danger. Alex would just be there as part of Barner's cover, Barner would do all the work and all Alex had to do was eat expensive food, talk to some people and be visible. That was all. No danger, no people he should avoid, no information on what Barner was doing.

Just talk to some people, be there and have fun.

Now, being dragged through the crowd by an overenthusiastic young man who was eager to introduce Alex to his father, the teen couldn't help but wonder why he even _tried_ to give Jones the benefit of the doubt anymore. This was going to end badly somehow, he just knew it.

"Father, may I introduce you to this remarkable young man I just met?"

A tall man, maybe around fifty, with short salt-and-pepper hair turned around from the group of people he had been conversing with and smiled at them. Behind him, the conversation kept flowing.

"Of course, Simon."

The grip on his shoulder tightened and drew him forward. Alex smiled, allowing himself to pick at the hem of his (ridiculously expensive) Armani shirt. It fit his assumed character to appear a little nervous.

"This is Lloyd Williams, the son of the acting director of the Greyson group, Shaun Williams."

The man's smile widened. Alex' bad feeling got worse.

"Hello, Lloyd. My name is Christian Weller, I'm the chairman of the LC Lux group. It's a pleasure to meet you."

They shook hands and Alex returned the greeting courteously. Besides them, Simon Weller beamed happily and launched into an explanation of how he had gotten to know Alex just an hour ago.

The next fifteen minutes dragged on at snail's pace, filled with small talk, bad jokes and questions about his background. He recounted some of the little facts he had learned by rote just last night, sometimes throwing in a detail only the real Lloyd Williams could know, sometimes stuttering and appearing a little shy, because that was the fact most people had heard about Williams' son.

Just when their conversation was drawing to a close and Alex was starting to relax a bit, a man stepped up to them and laid a hand on Mr. Weller's shoulder.

"Sir, there's a..." The voice trailed off, but Alex didn't look up, his gaze transfixed on that hand and his stomach feeling like it had dropped down into his knees. The last time he had seen those carefully manicured fingers they had been weakly grasping at a bloodied chest.

"There's a phone call for you on line 2," the voice picked up again. Flawless English, without the slightest hint of an accent.

"Thank you, Mihailov. I'm sorry, Lloyd, but I have to take that call. It was nice to meet you."

Alex knew that he answered something, but later he couldn't have said what. His eyes stayed fixed on that hand as it slid off the older man's shoulder and came to rest at a slim body's waist. Beside him, Simon was talking again.

"Lloyd, this is Kirill Mihailov, one of my father's assistants. Kirill, this is Lloyd Williams."

Slowly, oh so slowly, he forced himself to look up, dragging his gaze over the familiar-and-not chest, hoping so _desperately_ that he was wrong, that this was just a coincidence, that he was just paranoid...

There was a dead straight line drawn across the side of the man's neck, a slightly discoloured scar. Alex thought he was going to start hyperventilating any second now.

[ _They had told him he was dead._ ]

"Hello, Lloyd."

Dark brown hair instead of whitish blond. Clear, ice blue eyes hidden behind murky brown contact lenses. Dark circles under the eyes and a slightly pinched look. But there were the same sharp cheekbones. The same even, handsome face. The same curved lips, twisted into a welcoming smile.

"It is nice to meet you," Yassen Gregorovich said.

 


	2. Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex Rider isn't quite sure what love is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Date: No time in particular; before the start of the series (Timeline: http://shiruy.livejournal.com/3602.html)
> 
> Edited: 06.02.13

 

Alex Rider isn't quite sure what love is.

He once thought he knew – was convinced that he did, really. But then again, he was convinced of a lot of things back then.

The good guys are good. The bad guys are bad. Jack will always be there. Alex is a normal kid. Ian works at a bank and is gone often.

[ _He loves his nephew._ ]

But then one cold night in March – a few minutes after three, Alex remembers – two police men rang their doorbell and everything changed.

Slowly, at first -- _[no, you can't see the body][no seatbelt, his own fault][funeral tomorrow, the school][a_ _ **gun**_ _at a funeral?]_ – and then faster and faster he started to lose control of his life. There were demands he didn't want to fulfil, questions that no one answered, prices he wasn't prepared to pay -- and no way forward but the one they laid out for him.

He learned a lot over the next few months. Is still learning, in fact.

[ _Sometimes he would like to forget._ ]

The good guys are good. They are ruthless, merciless, shameless. They use, they abuse, they manipulate. They force and threaten and blackmail and coerce and _they lielielielie_ _ **lie**_. But still – they are the good guys. They always work towards the greater good.

[ _And they will stop at_ _ **nothing**_ _to get there._ ]

The bad guys are bad. They are ruthless, merciless, shameless. They use, they abuse, they manipulate. They force and threaten and blackmail and coerce and _they lielielielie_ _ **lie**_. They are selfish and greedy and violent. They always work for their own benefit.

[ _They save your life and die for you._ ]

Jack is tired. Every time he comes back she's gotten thinner, paler, older. Her eyes are murky with worry and dark with anger. [ _What if you don't come back next time?_ ] She takes care of him, showering him with closeness and affection and normalcy, helps him to regain his footing again and again. [ _He repays her with lies and more sleepless nights._ ] She has done so much. And she is so, so tired.

[ _pleasedon'tleavemetoopleasedon'tgodon'tgodon'tgo_ ]

Ever since he told Tom the truth, his [ _once_ ] best friend has been fascinated with the idea of being a spy. He drags Alex into every James Bond movie [ _do people really think you can come out of a burning building and look like that?_ ] and to go paintballing [ _he's so, so sick of being shot at_ ] and to different parks, wanting to run around and do ‘cool’ stuff. And so Alex sighs and shows him how to fall without hurting himself and they laugh when Tom slips on some ice and tumbles into the snow.

[ _Has he ever been that innocent?_ ]

For years and years, Ian was Alex' best friend. They went climbing, canoeing, surfing, hiking, swimming, diving... They spent every free minute together, and if Ian had to be gone for a month then he came back with a present and made it up with a week-long vacation in a new, exciting place. They lived abroad for months at a time, in high-class hotels and small, run-down huts. Ian showed Alex so much, _taught_ him so much -- [ _pick-pocketing, lying, first aid, driving, picking locks_ ] -- he is very grateful.

[ _And so_ _ **very**_ _angry._ ]

For years and years, Ian was Alex' best friend. And then Alex found out that the man who played snooker with him, who hated the word 'uncle', who liked classical music and went on long business trips... That man didn't exist at all.

Ian Rider was one of the good guys. [ _ruthless, merciless, shameless_ ] Did he teach Alex all those things to help Alex? [ _To make him a better weapon?_ ] How many times did he come close to dying and his nephew never knew? [ _Am I speaking to Alex Rider? Ah, yes, your uncle called us, something came up. He'll be home a bit later than expected--_ ] Hell, did he ever even like classical music?

[ _How much of the man Alex knew was a lie?_ ]

And why had he left Alex to MI6, knowing full well what kind of world he was pushing his nephew into?

[ _the world that had killed Ian and is now sinking its claws into his nephew, dragging him downdowndown_ ]

Alex Rider isn't quite sure what love is.

 


	3. Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They promised they wouldn't do this anymore. They promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Date: Dec. 27th - 10.30 pm, between #5 Seeking Solace and #7 Heaven (Timeline: http :// shiruy. livejournal. com/ 3602. html)
> 
> Edited: 07.02.13

 

It's the first time he's ever been accosted by MI6 at night, and it feels more like a kidnapping than ever. The car he's politely manhandled into has tinted windows, the doors don't open once they have snapped shut behind him and the two men in the front seat he can only see through a sheet of what is probably bullet-proof glass. But even through the glass he notices that the driver is cursing and the one in the passenger seat is hunched over, holding his chest. Alex can't bring himself to feel the slightest bit sorry – they should have known better than to try to grab him from behind.

As expected he finds himself in the underground garage of the Royal & General once he is finally let out and he doesn't know what he expected, but there are still several dozen cars parked there. Does no one in this place ever go home?

But then he can't think about that anymore because Disgruntled Agent One and Two are coming around and shepherding him into the elevator. He's tempted to make the second one walk funny too, but the only point he'd manage to make is that he is childish and can't control himself. No, he's saving this anger for the people who deserve it. So he allows himself to be dragged along and is not the slightest bit surprised when they step out into a familiar, bland hallway on the sixteenth floor.

He thinks he's going to be led into room number 1605, Blunt's office, but instead the two guards open the door to 1604. There's no name tag, but when he steps in and sees Mrs. Jones waiting behind her desk he still doesn't feel anything besides a mild sense of annoyance and resignation.

They go through the usual spiel of 'How are you Alex?' and 'Are you holding up?' and she even makes the effort and throws in an 'I'm so sorry about what happened.' It still doesn't change the fact that she dragged him here because she wants something from him, and he doesn't need to be a genius to know that he won't be willing to give it.

“So, Alex, how would you like a short vacation? We still owe you a lot and Christmas break isn't over yet. We—“

“No,” he interrupts, because no matter what she says he won’t want to do it. He might as well save them both some time and get the obligatory refusals out of the way now. Maybe this time they will stick.

She stops and stares at him, then she takes a deep breath and pinches the bridge of her nose. She looks tired, but he can't bring himself to feel sorry for her. He would have preferred finishing his trip to the cinema like any normal kid and going home and to bed too. Jack must be worried by now.

“Please hear me out first, Alex. It's just a three day trip and we only need you for one of those days. The rest of the time you'd be free to—“

“Mrs. Jones, _no_. I don't want anything to do with this.” And he says it so firmly that he almost believes it will change the outcome of this meeting too.

She looks at him, weary and exhausted. “Please, Alex. You won't be in any danger, I promise. Your partner would do all the work. You'd just be there to serve as his cover.”

He barely holds back a snort. “Just like I wasn't in any danger when you sent me to Skeleton Key? Two weeks in the sun, that's what you said, wasn't it?”

She gives him another long, silent look and he is starting to feel uncomfortable. Not that he was comfortable before, but now he's getting that trapped mouse feeling that usually signals imminent life threatening situations. He wants this meeting to be over.

Mrs. Jones sighs again, deep and sorrowful, and gets a peppermint out of a bowl on the corner of her desk. Her voice is flat and cold. “I don't want to do this, Alex, but I have my orders and you don't leave me much choice.”

It is a fairly ugly bowl, as far as these things go. White china with pink and blue blossoms painted onto it, it has probably been rather expensive. He can't see the appeal.

“We really need you on this case. It’s very important. And it’s in your best interest to go along with it, too.”

He swallows, eyes still stuck on the bowl. It’s easier than looking at her. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that for an organization such as ours it would be quite simple to force your guardian, Jack Starbright, to leave the country. It would be even easier to detain her for questioning in relation to one case or another and then keep her for a while. Long enough for you to need to be assigned a new guardian.”

They promised they wouldn't do this anymore. They _promised_.

[ _And every time they say it he wants to believe it so badly._ ]

“You are blackmailing me. Again.”

She takes another peppermint and pops it into her mouth. The harsh light in her office throws the crow’s feet at the corner of her eyes into stark relief.

"Yes. Yes, we are. I don't personally agree with this course of action, but I have been overruled."

As if that makes it better.

It is his turn to sigh and he leans back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling tiles. The halogen lights blind him, but he can still spot the little hole at the corner of one tile. A camera.

"So that's it? I do a mission for you, I come out of it barely alive, you tell me it was the last time and a few weeks later you call me in again?"

They meet each other's eyes, one looking as unhappy as the other.

"We are only calling you in for jobs that have requirements no one else can meet. You know we wouldn't take such a risk if lives weren't on the line," she tries to explain.

He holds her gaze and doesn’t know what to think. She says this job won’t be dangerous, that he’s there to help establish a cover, but apparently there are lives on the line. And what’s this about ‘requirements no one else can meet’? Can’t they disguise someone to look like they are fourteen? They have experts for this. So why are they forcing him into it?  
  
He thinks about voicing his thoughts, asking her why she’s contradicting herself, but the words die in his throat. Nothing he says will change the outcome of this conversation. Between doing the mission and losing Jack there really is no choice at all. He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. Damage control. That’s something he can do. “If you keep giving me missions I need some kind of schedule. I’ve missed too much school already; I’m barely keeping up as it is.”

Mrs. Jones looks at him seriously, the corners of her mouth turned down in a slight frown. "Does that mean you are going to work for us?"

He nods wordlessly, unable to bring himself to actually say the words. Considering that her agency has just gotten exactly what it has been after for months, Mrs. Jones looks remarkably grim.

"Alright. We'll need to work out a schedule, you need to receive some proper training. The plan is to sign you on as an independent asset.” She gets a stack of papers out of her desk. “I can’t give you the rank of an agent, but like this you at least have some legal basis for your dealings with us.”

He frowns, confused. They _want_ to give him legal standing with the organization? That’s new. “What does that mean? What would it change?”

She looks up briefly, but then goes back to her papers. Her fountain pen is already flying across the lines, filling out the forms in harsh, blocky letters. They don’t suit the elegant writing utensil. “It will enable us to pay you for your missions, for one. We’ll be able to put you into training courses, get you proper security clearance and help you with issues like school, insurance, etcetera. And it’ll be easier to get any events you are involved in classified and take your personal information out of the system.”

It sounds…good. “The catch?”

This time she doesn’t look up at all. “Minimum contract duration is four years. During that time you cannot quit except in the case of severe permanent injury. We can terminate your contract at any time if our testing shows you unfit for field work. You can’t refuse assignments.”

Four more years of this _. Four years_. He can’t—no, no way. He shakes his head, speechless. Mrs. Jones still doesn’t look at him.

“After the four years are up there is no way we can hold onto you – the contract terminates on its own unless you request a renewal, in which case the terms can be discussed again. You’d be—“ She has to stop to clear her throat. “You’d be free to go and do whatever you want.”

“That…” He shakes his head again. Incredulity and outrage are roiling in him, stealing his words. At last he gets out, “Four years?!”

She gets to the end of the page, pauses, puts the pen down and finally meets his eyes. “It’s the best I could get.”

The best she could get? The best she… And he understands. The focus of his anger shifts. “For how long did Blunt want to sign me on?”

She doesn’t mince words, just answers straight out, “Twelve years.”

Alex knows she has lied to him before, knows that maybe she is just presenting the contract in this way to make him more agreeable to the four years compared to the twelve, but he can’t help but want to believe her. He can’t help but want to have someone on his side. He swallows thickly, the anger deflating into a black, heavy weight below his ribs.

“If I don’t sign the contract?”

“Ms. Starbright gets in some legal trouble which will make it necessary to keep her detained or send her home for a while. We choose your new guardian and put you in a school we believe to be beneficial for the development of your talents. You’d probably lose the house.”

Doing the mission or losing Jack. Four years of his life or life without the only person he loves in this world. There is no choice.

He reaches for the pen.

 


	4. Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was not hiding. Really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Date: Dec. 29th - 4.45 pm, between #01 Introduction and #06 Break Away (Timeline: http :// shiruy. livejournal. com/ 3602. html)
> 
> Edited: 04.09.13

 

He was standing next to the buffet table and eating the most delicious dark chocolate mousse ever. He was just standing there, in the shadows behind one of the pillars holding up the high ceiling of the hall, back pressed against cool marble, and if he couldn't see the main room [ _and no one from the main room could see him, oh god, please don't let him find me_ ] then that was just coincidence.

He was eating chocolate mousse. _Delicious_ dark chocolate mousse.

In no way was he panicking and hiding in the first halfway decent place he had thought of.

And while he was trying denial on for size he could also pretend that he hadn't freaked out, thrown a hasty excuse at Simon Weller and _Kirill,_ then promptly fled the scene.

It was all just so... They had told him he was _dead_. He could remember that strangely bleak, sunny morning by the Thames; Mrs. Jones' question, probing and suspicious, making him think his father really had been a contract killer.

[ _“You were on the plane with Yassen when he was shot. Did he say anything before he died?”_ ]

Why had she done that? Did she not know? How could she not? And Yassen, how had he– no, maybe no one– MI6 knew, right? Right?! They had to! There were agents on the scene, they had taken Yassen's “body” into custody, they _had_ to know that all this time...

All this time, while Alex had stumbled after answers and right into Scorpia's treacherous grasp, was kidnapped and fought to keep Ark Angel from crashing onto Washington, washed up in Australia and then went right back into the thick of it for the small hope of spending time with someone who used to know his parents... All this time, Yassen had been alive. And nobody had told him. _Nobody_.

[ _Still just a pawn._ ]

Stabbing his spoon into the creamy mousse on his plate, he leaned back against the pillar he was ~~hid-~~ _standing_ behind and took a couple of slow, deep breaths. In through the nose, hold, out through the mouth. Repeat. And repeat. And repeat again, until the impulse to smash his plate on the floor and yell about the unfairness of the world grew a little more manageable. He hated his situation, he hated all the lies, maybe he even hated MI6 and a little bit himself. But none of that mattered right now, because when you got right down to it?

Yes, he was a pawn. He had signed those papers, he had given up four years of his life [ _four years, 48 months, 1461 days – no, wait, 1459 now_ ] to keep Jack with him. And yes, it was unfair. But there was nothing he or Jack could do about it, and those who could didn't care.

So now he could either throw a temper tantrum, blow his cover, probably get his partner killed and mess up the whole mission. Or he could grit his teeth, chat with the other party guests about what a beautiful city Nuremberg was, pretend he wasn't on edge because Barner had vanished two hours ago without telling Alex _a damned thing,_ and get out of here alive.

If only Barner had at least told him how long he would be gone. In this crowd, Alex could avoid Yassen for ten minutes, maybe even half an hour if he was lucky, but he was sure the Russian was still somewhere in the big hall, just waiting for the most inopportune moment to appear right in front of Alex. The safest thing to do would be to go outside and wait for Barner inside their limo, but it would be suspicious if Lloyd Williams left the party without his father.

Though at this point, considering Yassen was here and had seen Alex, had heard the name of his cover identity... maybe Barner was already dead. Maybe Alex was only delaying the inevitable, standing here and waiting. Maybe there was a bullet with his name on it, just biding its time until he stepped outside into the dark.

[ _“I couldn't kill you. I would never have killed you.”_ ]

He didn't know what to do.

Well, the MI6-approved thing to do would be to get in contact with whoever was their support on this mission, inform them of the situation and wait for further instructions. The _sane_ thing to do would be to get the hell out of dodge, find somewhere to lay low, then get in contact with MI6. What he _wanted_ to do...

[ _“We were in the Amazon... he saved my life. In a way, I loved him.”_ ]

He leaned around the pillar and glanced around the room. Dressed up men and women, waiters in uniforms balancing trays full of hors d'oeuvre and champagne flutes, security people standing spaced throughout the room and next to all the entrances and exits, calm and unobtrusive. 

And somewhere amongst them, moving like a ghost, a man Alex desperately wanted to ask some questions.

 


	5. Seeking Solace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex doesn't get girls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Date: Dec. 23rd - 2 am, between Questioning and Light (Timeline: http :// shiruy. livejournal. com/ 3602. html)
> 
> Edited: 06.02.13

 

It was late and even Jack had long since gone to bed when he heard the noise. A shuffling in the hallway, light feet on the stairs. A quiet creaking, and then he knew it was Sabina, because Jack always made sure to skip the noisy step when she sneaked downstairs. He debated with himself for a moment, then he got up to follow.

Sabina had been staying with them for two days now. Not for any particular reason, her parents were fine and in the city as well, but it was just easier. There was a free guest room, and Alex and Sabina spent every day together anyway, so on one of the days she had stayed especially late they had simply called her parents and she hadn't gone back to the hotel at all.

It was strange. Spending time with Sabina, going to the cinema, or on a bike trip, or simply to the park... it all made him feel so normal he wondered when the other shoe was going to drop. They were just two kids having fun, laughing at rude jokes and talking about whatever. No assassins suddenly jumping out from behind cars. No kidnapping attempts. No conspiracies or plots or grand plans to kill countless people.

It was making him increasingly paranoid.

Now, as he was sneaking down the stairs and towards the kitchen, he contemplated the fact that nothing happening made him more nervous than an attempt to blow up their house would have. No wonder he felt so out of place amongst his peers at school.

Peeking into the kitchen, he was greeted with the sight of Sabina buried halfway in the freezer, apparently searching for something and muttering under her breath. Bemused, he leaned against the door frame and crossed his arms, waiting for her to notice him.

Suddenly she gave a triumphant "A-ha!" and pulled a tub of chocolate ice cream out. He blinked, feeling even more mystified than before. Was it normal for girls to get sudden mad ice cream cravings at two in the morning?

She fetched herself a spoon, put the tub on the kitchen counter and went to sit down – saw him and screamed.

Alex jumped in surprise and almost yelped as well, but then he was already striding forward, whispering urgently, "Hey, it's just me, don't worry. Calm down, okay?"

"Alex!" She hissed under her breath, standing there in the dark room with the spoon clutched in her hand like a weapon. "God, you scared me! Kindly make some noise when you sneak up on people like that!"

He gave her a half-hearted smile and sat down across from the place she had intended for herself. "Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you."

She waved a hand at him and sat down as well, sighing heavily. "It's just as well that you're here. I thought you'd be asleep for sure by now."

He shrugged and cocked his head at her. "I heard you in the hallway. Wanted to check if something's wrong."

She blinked at him for a moment and then shook her head with a little smile. "You're so strange, Alex."

He didn't know how to answer that, and so he just watched as she popped the lid of the tub and started eating ice cream at two in the morning in the middle of winter in the cold kitchen. He found it somewhat ironic that she thought he was the strange one.

After a few minutes of companionable silence, during which Sabina consumed an almost awe-inspiring amount of ice cream, he decided that maybe something _was_ wrong. Besides, his feet were getting cold.

"Sab... what's going on?"

She glanced at him before going back to staring at the ice cream she was rapidly demolishing.

"Alex, tell me something. What am I wearing?"

He blinked at her, seriously confused now. What was she _wearing_? What did that have to do with anything? Humouring her, he leaned over the counter to catch a glimpse of her clothes and nonchalantly described, "Black short-shorts and a tank-top. And?"

She sighed and shot him a kind of sad, frustrated look. "You had to check. I'm running around in my underwear and you had to check."

He frowned, not entirely sure he understood what she was getting at. She was eating ice cream because he refused to be a hormonal idiot and ogle her? The hell?

Sabina smiled and shook her head, noticing his confusion. She straightened up and pushed the tub a little to the side. "Lean over for a second, yeah?"

Not thinking much about it and trusting her, he did as she had asked him to and leaned over the counter, supporting himself on his elbows. She leaned over as well and placed a hand on his shoulder, giving him an intent look. A second before she did it he knew what she was going to do and so he was only a little surprised when she kissed him, pressing her lips against his.

It was soft, cold and tasted like chocolate ice cream. The first time she had kissed him she had thought he had been asleep and the second time had tasted like tears. He thought that this was a definite improvement compared to the last two times, but he also didn't quite get why the guys at school made such a big deal about it. He didn't have any delusions about sparks and fireworks, but he still thought it should feel a little more special than, well, getting a goodnight kiss from Jack for example.

After a couple of seconds Sabina let go of him and plopped down into her seat again, grabbing the ice cream tub and pulling it to her. He frowned, half confused and half embarrassed, and slowly sat down as well, desperately searching for words.

"Uh..."

"You didn't feel anything, did you?" She didn't look at him as she used her spoon to carve swirly shapes into the ice cream.

He floundered, finding himself speechless for once.

She waved him off again. "I didn't think you would. Like it, I mean. I expected this, really." She got another spoonful and sucked on it for a while. "Not that that makes it any easier."

Finally giving up, he shook his head and threw his hands up. He didn't get girls. "What are you even talking about, Sabina?"

She smiled, but it was sad somehow, wistful. "We've been spending every single day of the last two weeks together and you haven't tried to kiss me a single time. I sleep in your house but you don't come visit me in my room at night. I'm sitting here in my frickin' _underwear_ and you don't even notice..." She shook her head. "The one time I like a guy who's younger than me and he's not interested at all. I have no luck with men."

He awkwardly scratched his head and looked down at the worktop. He _did_ like her, she was a great friend. She was fun to hang out with, had a hilarious sense of humour, was pretty and sporty and didn't get annoyed with his jumpiness or asked about his scars.

But that didn't change the fact that he didn't particularly want to kiss her.

What _was_ wrong with him?

A sigh drew his attention back to Sabina. Her smile looked more sincere now. "Don't worry, Alex. At least this way we'll stay friends until we're old and wrinkled – only that I will of course still be beautiful – and meanwhile, I get to eat guilt-free ice cream because it is for consoling purposes. So, we good?"

He didn't get girls. He really, really didn't.

Giving a helpless little laugh, he nodded. "Yeah, we're good." 

They smiled at each other for a few seconds, then Alex got up to get himself a spoon.

 


	6. Break Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex stared. Yassen stared back. The situation was going nowhere fast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Date: Dec. 29th - 5 pm, between #04 Dark and #09 Drive (Timeline: http://shiruy.livejournal.com/3602.html)
> 
> Edited: 09.09.13

 

Alex slowly made his way around the room, lingering at the edge of the crowd. The other guests mostly ignored him, just another spoiled little heir wandering around, probably bored with the grown-ups and searching for some entertainment. Needless to say, his thoughts were as far from finding entertainment as they could possibly be right now. He couldn't decide what to do.

On the one hand, it would be incredibly stupid and reckless to confront Yassen. No matter the kind of relationship the assassin had had with Alex' father, he was still dangerous and ruthless. Maybe he didn't want to kill Alex directly, but he hadn't had a problem with leaving the teen to fight off a bull. He hadn't had a problem with subjecting him to Cray's horribly real game.

On the other hand, he had saved Alex from Sayle and tried to give Alex a chance to escape, to go home and forget this whole spy business. Later, with Cray, he had taken a bullet to the chest rather than pull the trigger on Alex and Sabina himself. He had... he had said he was glad that Alex was with him, when he thought he was about to die. And that wasn't a confession anyone made lightly.

Then again, he had sent Alex straight into Scorpia's pincers. What had that been about? Yassen's last underhanded attempt to get revenge on him for causing Yassen's death? After all, he couldn't honestly believe that Scorpia would take in the son of a trai–

...oh.

Oh god.

Oh _fucking purple squirrel on a stick!_

Yassen didn't know. _Yassen didn't know_. He didn't know that it had all been a setup. He didn't know that Alex' father hadn't really died that day on the bridge.

He _didn't know_ that John Rider had basically betrayed him.

Alex swallowed. Suddenly he felt much less inclined to face the assassin. He didn't want to tell Yassen the truth, but he also didn't think that the man deserved to believe a lie. He didn't– he had as good as _died_ for Alex, for the son of a man he had loved... for the son of a man who had betrayed him.

And Alex didn't want to, no, _couldn't_ let it stand like that. Not when he had the opportunity to do something about it, to unsnarl one more knot in this tangle of lies, treachery and secrets. Yassen deserved that much.

He had completed a half circle of the hall at this point, the buffet table and the pillars he had hidden behind all the way across the crowd now. To his left, several huge sets of doors lead onto a terrace and to steps down into the garden. Two security guards were stationed at each double door, but they didn't pay him any attention when he slipped past them and into the cool evening air.

The sun had almost set, painting the sky and the few clouds a blazing red. It hadn't snowed in a few days, so the terrace was clear, but he still shivered and slipped his hands into his pockets. He was pretty sure the temperatures were below zero, which was probably the reason no on else was outside. He walked up to the stone railing wrapped around the terrace and rested his hands on it. Cold seeped into his palms, sharp and refreshing. He flexed his fingers and welcomed it, leaning forwards and supporting himself on his hands.

Alex still hadn't decided what to do. Leaving was a mistake, staying was a mistake and every moment he hesitated was another moment Yassen could talk to Weller about the whereabouts of one Shaun Williams, Lloyd's father. Maybe he should simply contact MI6, tell them about Yassen and let them handle it. That would either lead to Yassen's capture, his death, or his escape and the deaths of several MI6 agents though. Most likely the latter. Alex was also sure that the second he mentioned Yassen, MI6 would order Alex to get out of there. To not get involved.

[ _Way too late for that._ ]

He needed to talk to Yassen, but not here. There was too much surveillance and too high a chance of someone seeing them. Also, if he really went through with telling Yassen the truth about what had happened almost fifteen years ago, it might be prudent to have some distance between them. Like, say, an ocean or two. He wasn't particularly eager to find out whether the assassin had a temper.

The skin at the base of his nape prickled and he tensed, breath stuttering in his chest as he became abruptly aware of another person on the terrace. He tightened his grip on the railing, feet sliding an inch apart in preparation to turn, dodge –

A hand clamped down on his shoulder.

Air rushed out of his lungs in a startled yelp, but the rest of his body jumped into action. His elbow slammed back into the chest way, way too close behind him and he half turned, tried to step back along the railing to give himself some space, but the grip on his shoulder didn't falter and he found himself shoved forwards and slammed into the railing. He gasped, hands reflexively coming up to brace himself against the stone, and the next moment they were already twisted behind his back, each wrist caught in a tight grip.

He froze, mind racing and heart pounding with adrenaline. His legs were free, he could still kick – his arms were forced higher, making the stretch just painful enough to make it clear that it could be a lot worse, if his captor chose to make it so.

Right. Point taken.

Letting the breath held in his chest out on a slow, shuddery exhale, Alex slumped more heavily against the railing, easing the strain on his arms and shoulders. He hadn't expected this confrontation to sneak up on him quite so soon. He really should have known better.

“Did they not teach you that separating yourself from the crowd makes you an easier target?”

It was strange how familiar that voice was, despite Alex only having heard it a few times in his life. Maybe it was due to all the nightmares he kept having of everything that had happened on board the Air Force One.

“In this case, I don't think it would have made much of a difference,” Alex replied.

Yassen huffed and Alex couldn't say whether it was exasperation or amusement. But the man's hold on his wrists eased, allowed him to slowly lower his arms, then fell away completely. Alex turned around quickly, relieved to no longer have his back exposed to someone more enemy than ally.

It was incredibly surreal to look a dead man in the eye, even disguised as he was.

It didn't help that Yassen looked just as cold and blank as the last times they had met. Even when he was about to die – had thought he was about to die, there had been almost no change in his expression. It was a little eerie. And impressive. But mostly eerie.

The Russian tipped his head a fraction to the side, gaze sharp and focused. It reminded Alex of a falcon, or maybe a big cat on the prowl. “What are you doing here, Alex?”

Direct and to the point, huh? He could do that.

“Getting some fresh air.” Or not. God, what was wrong with him that he couldn't keep his smart remarks to himself for once?

Yassen must have been thinking the same thing, because his eyes narrowed for a split second. Alex couldn't help but flinch back, pushing himself flat against the railing. Note to self: Teach mouth to consult brain before being rude. Nobody likes a suicidal body part.

“I'm not here to snoop around or investigate anyone, okay?” he tried again, crossing his arms uncomfortably. He was telling the truth, Alex wasn't here to spy or investigate anyone. The same didn't go for his partner, agent Barner.

The Russian raised an eyebrow, but seemed to accept Alex' word for now, since next he said, “I was under the impression that you had gone back to being a normal school boy after the last time we met.” It could have been a simple statement, but the expectant air around him turned it into a demand for answers.

Alex was torn between laughing hysterically and cursing violently, and some of that must have shown on his face. He shook his head. “I'd have loved to do so, but other parties disagreed. And while we're on the topic,” he hesitated for a moment, “I was told you died that day. What happened?”

Yassen hummed as if in thought, then -- and Alex couldn't believe he was really seeing this – the corner of his mouth turned up a little. “I got better,” he deadpanned.

What.

Alex stared. Yassen stared back. The situation was going nowhere fast.

After a painfully long, silent minute, the teen sighed. “Look, I need to talk to you.”

Once again, the man raised an eyebrow. Alex had to bite back an annoyed growl.

“But not now, okay?! It's... there's some stuff you should know and I wanted to ask about– “ He paused, swallowed. About his father. With Ash dead, Yassen was the last person alive who had really known his father. “About some other things nobody else can tell me.”

The man's brows pulled into a frown and he seized Alex up with a doubtful look. “It is highly likely I am already aware of whatever information you think I should have.”

Alex stared blankly at the man and tried to imagine that possibility. Somehow, he thought this meeting would have involved a lot more violence if that were the case. “I'm pretty sure you aren't.” He bit his lip and carefully scanned the other's face, trying to figure out if he could convince him, but as always, Yassen gave him no hint either way. The teen felt like throwing his hands up in frustration.

“Please,” he tried again, “Is there any way we can talk over the phone? Or the internet? It's important.”

Finally, the assassin seemed to give his request serious consideration. Maybe Alex' straightforward plea had shown that he was being honest. Or the Russian had simply decided that it was too clumsy to be one of MI6's ploys.

Either way, it lead to Yassen giving a sharp nod. “I will give you a number to contact me. It is untraceable. After the first of January it will be out of order. You have time to call until then.”

Alex sighed in relief, some of the tension leaking out of his shoulders. He could get some distance between them, tell Yassen the truth about John Rider's involvement with MI6, and then they would be even. He wouldn't owe the assassin for saving his life and Yassen wouldn't feel like he owed the Riders anything either – neither John nor Alex.

'After the first of January' gave him three days. It was the night of the 29th, tomorrow afternoon they'd fly back to England if all went well, and then two days remained to call Yassen. Two days in which Alex could hand the number over to MI6. Be a good little boy and do what Jones and Blunt would expect of him.

Yeah, right.

Suddenly Yassen took a step closer, shrinking the distance between them to a mere arms length, and held out his hand. “Give me your arm.”

Confused, Alex straightened up from where he had inadvertently slumped against the railing. What did – oh. A pen had appeared in the Russian's other hand. The number, right.

Even though this had been his goal, Alex still had to force himself to hold out his vulnerable wrist to the man. He jumped when Yassen grabbed his arm in a scarily quick move and took another step closer, but all the assassin did was push Alex's sleeve back, exposing his skin to the cool night air. He shivered as he felt the warmth radiating from Yassen's body and glanced up at his face, but under the cover of the rapidly falling darkness and with his back to the brightly lit house, it was impossible to make out anything but the sharp line of the Russian's jaw, the curve of his cheek.

Alex looked down again, uncomfortably aware of the way the light was falling on his face and putting him on display. Instead, he focused on where Yassen was writing a long string of numbers just below the crook of his elbow, keeping Alex' arm steady with a surprisingly warm hand wound around his wrist. He was writing slowly, making sure the numbers were clear, and for a moment Alex held his breath, everything about the moment suddenly feeling strange and quiet and unsettling. Then a gust of icy wind caught him in the side and forced a full-body shiver from him, his breath leaving him in a startled hiss. It was really getting cold out here.

He jumped again when Yassen's thumb rubbed over his pulse point just once, his eyes snapping down to where his skin was prickling, but by the time he thought about jerking his arm away Yassen had already finished with the number and had let go of him. Confused, Alex stayed frozen in place and watched the assassin back away two steps. He wanted to say something, break the heavy silence between them, but he couldn't find any words.

Yassen didn't have the same problem. “Memorize the number, then wash it off as soon as possible,” he ordered.

Alex nodded silently, still rooted in place, and watched as Yassen went back inside, pace quick but unhurried.

He glanced down at his arm, at the black number visible against his skin, and shook his head. He had gotten what he wanted, but he felt off balance and unsettled, as if something bad was sneaking up on him that he just couldn't see yet. Maybe he should have asked Yassen to stay for another moment and talked to him about Barner, about this mission and how Alex could make sure to stay out of anyone's crosshairs. Maybe he should have gone back to the hotel half an hour ago and never asked for a way to contact Yassen.

It was too late to change anything either way. He hadn't left, he had asked, and he was still here. Nothing left to do but wait for either Barner to turn up or for Yassen to come find him again, this time in the capacity of Mr. Weller's _assistant_.

Between the two options, he knew which one he was hoping for.

 


	7. Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred Barner wore an expensive black suit, had a severe expression on his face, and didn't believe in small talk.  
> Apparently, he also didn't believe in teenaged spies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Date: Dec. 28th - 9 am (Timeline: http://shiruy.livejournal.com/3602.html)
> 
> Edited: 07.02.13

 

Alfred Barner was a serious kind of man. He wore an expensive black suit, had a severe expression on his face, and didn't believe in small talk.

Apparently, he also didn't believe in teenaged spies.

Alex sighed quietly and sunk lower into his window seat. The man next to him had only talked to him when he absolutely had to during their drive to the airport and their boarding of the plane. Now, half an hour after take-off, he was still studiously ignoring Alex and doing his utmost to look like he was completely absorbed in his paper.

It was starting to piss Alex off.

Barner's behaviour reminded him of Belinda Troy, the CIA agent he had worked with during the Skeleton Key mission, but at least she had talked to him. This man seemed to hope that if he didn't acknowledge Alex' existence for long enough he would simply go away.

As if that was going to happen.

Of course he wasn't all that eager to do this job, but hell, that didn't mean that he was going to screw it all up the second they stepped off the plane. He was still alive after all, wasn't he? The same could not be said for a lot of other people he had worked with. So it was kind of insulting that he had to put up with this kind of attitude from someone who was supposed to be a professional. Again.

He stared out of the window at the sea of clouds below them, looking like giant marshmallow mountains. They reminded him of a few of those paintings he had seen in the museums Jack had dragged him to over the years. Angels frolicking among the clouds, big pearly gates and some random guy that apparently represented God.

Alex snorted quietly. That was not what death was like. At least he didn't think so. In his experience, death was cold and dark and strangely silent. Feeling weak all over, as if all your strength is flowing out of you, and you can't breath anymore but it doesn't really hurt, and then it gets hard to think and you feel so, so tired. Tired of fighting, tired of living. Tired of making any damn effort to get up yet again.

And he _had_ given up, those scant few months ago.

He crossed his arms against the sudden chill he felt and turned to Barner. "Are you actually going to talk to me during this mission or are we going to continue pretending that we have nothing to do with each other?"

The agent finally looked away from his paper and gave him a sharp look. "You are to be part of my cover tomorrow. I will give you the file when we arrive at our hotel room. You will mingle with the other guests, behave according to your assumed persona and then we will fly home again two days from now. Excess interaction between us is not necessary."

For a moment Alex just stared, speechless in the face of such condescension. Then he took a deep breath, nodded coolly, and leaned back in his seat, staring straight ahead.

Okay. Great. No excess interaction. He could do that. He would do that. 'S not like he actually needed to know what was going on, or what they were trying to do, or which people he had to be careful around. Nooo. Blundering blindly into horrible messes was one of his special skills! Give him a one in one thousand chance and he'd be sure to catch the attention of the one bad guy everyone else knew to avoid. He was awesome like that. And Barner had to know that too and that was his whole plan! Right. Yes. Exactly. 

Or maybe Barner was just an arsehole.

 


	8. Innocence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It would have been so, _so_ nice if for once everything had just gone according to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Date: Dec. 30th - 3 am, between Silence and Memory (Timeline: http :// shiruy. livejournal. com/ 3602. html)
> 
> Edited: 29.06.14

 

Alex was slowly making his way up the stairs, his cold, stiff hands buried in his pockets. He could have taken the elevator, but every minute he could avoid facing Barner was a minute well spent, and their suite was only on the third floor anyway.

Anger still sat in his stomach like a glowing ember, but it was overshadowed by a heavy fog of frustrated resignation. Considering the contract he had signed, the training Mrs. Jones wanted to put him through, he'd soon meet other agents and agents-to-be. Would they all treat him like Barner? Like a stupid kid playing games, somehow using his daddy's influence to get into these training sessions? What a thing to look forward to.

He wished he could have stayed out all night, but while he did somewhat know the city since he had been here before with Ian – and wasn't that just cruel irony? – it was several degrees below freezing outside. In his haste to leave their suite he had only grabbed one of their nearly identical MI6-issue coats, which then, to top it all off, had turned out to be Barner's. The nearby church's bell had just struck three and while Alex had changed out of the suit he had to wear for the gala into something warmer, with only a coat he still felt frozen solid after wandering about the town for hours on end.

He reached the glass door leading to their floor, glowering at the card reader. He was so sick and tired of having to fight, of having to explain himself and his life over and over again, only to be met with doubt and disbelief.

Steeling his resolve not to let Barner get to him again he opened the door with his keycard and quietly slipped down the hallway, footsteps muffled on the thick carpet. They were in one of the upscale hotels in the city center as befitting of their cover, for which Alex was grateful. He didn't want to imagine having to return to a cold or barely heated, ratty hotel room right about now.

He had had plenty of experience with sleeping in roach-invested rooms, enough to last him three lifetimes. Or that time he had to hide in a filthy river and giant rats crawled all over him. He shook himself as he wandered down the corridor, still remembering the feeling of dozens of malicious little black eyes on him. If there was one thing he never wanted a repeat of–

He stopped dead.

Startled, he looked around, a rush of adrenaline jolting his senses into overdrive. Something was off. The hallway was well-lit, the walls a neutral cream colour, all the doors were closed and the rug was undisturbed. Nothing seemed to be out of order, and yet he was absolutely sure that something was wrong.

He moved forward cautiously and stopped when he reached the door to suite number fourteen, where he looked around again. The decorative plants hadn't been moved, none of the door knobs appeared scuffed as they would have been had someone attempted to break in, the cameras placed at regular intervals were...

The cameras. They hadn't changed position once since he had entered the hallway. They weren't doing their usual sweeps.

For a few long seconds he simply stood there, mind racing.

There were three possible scenarios. Number one, it was a simple technical failure and the hotel would get it fixed in the morning. Number two, the security officer responsible for watching the cameras had intentionally frozen the cameras, which meant that there had to be some reason for it. Number three, someone had hacked the cameras and fed them a loop, which meant that the security officer thought that nothing was amiss.

Whatever it was, he had to warn Barner. They would be better off leaving the hotel as quickly as possible, even if it was slightly paranoid. Better crazy than dead.

Searching through the coat pockets, he got out the key card to their room and went to swipe it through the scanner, but then he noticed that it wasn't the right card at all. He blinked in surprise and took a closer look at it; it was white just like the hotel's card, but aside from a small eight-digit number on the front and the magnetic stripe on the back there was nothing on it to mark its purpose. Frowning, he put it into the inner pocket of his jeans, got out the real room card and opened the door.

The second he entered it became glaringly obvious that whatever had happened, it was already over.

The living room had been ransacked, and most likely their rooms too, considering both the doors had been left wide open. For a moment he just stood there and took in the methodical destruction of every single object in the room. Then he gave himself a mental shake and concentrated on what was really important.

A quick glance into their rooms showed that Barner wasn't in either room and he quietly allowed himself a smidgeon of hope. Maybe the agent had escaped. Or maybe he hadn't been here either. Maybe he had followed Alex and was somewhere in the city, searching for the teen. It was possible, wasn't it?

Then he noticed that while the door to his adjacent bathroom was open, Barner's was closed.

Dread settled into him like a heavy weight and he felt like he was wading through quicksand as he walked over, each step slower and heavier than the one before. When he came to a stop in front of the door he noticed the sound of the shower running and had to fight against the urge to turn around and just run.

It would have been so, so nice if for once everything had just gone according to plan. If he could have done his stupid job as cover, not run into any trouble and gone home on time. If he could have gone one mission without feeling his heartbeat flutter in his throat, stomach churning with nerves.

But, as he had long since learned, wishing got you nowhere.

He opened the door and stepped into the room. Directly into a puddle of blood.

For several long seconds he was completely frozen, his eyes fixed on an arching red spatter on the opposite wall. Then the thick, steamy air hit him, heavy with the smell of sweet copper, and he closed his eyes, swallowing the sudden flood of saliva in his mouth.

Why couldn't he just have a normal mission for once? Why couldn't he just... not have to face this? Why couldn't he be home right now, safe and warm in his own bed with Jack just two rooms over? Had he done something to deserve this?

The tableau hadn't changed when he got himself to open his eyes again. The shower was running and the sliding doors weren't closed, which meant that half the bathroom was covered in a light spray of water. The other half of the bathroom was covered in a large puddle of blood – Barner's throat had been slit. The man was lying on his side halfway between the shower stall and the door. It looked like he had been crawling forward, trying to reach help.

Alex took slow, shallow breaths through his mouth and stepped further into the room. It had been ransacked just as thoroughly as the others, though he couldn't spot any bloody finger- or handprints, not even smudged ones. Either they had been very careful when they had slit Barner's throat or they had been wearing gloves. Crouching down next to the naked body, he placed his fingers on the man's pulse points, knowing already that it was useless. Barner was as dead as someone could possibly be.

It did tell him something else though. The body was still warm, around room temperature, but that could be explained away with the hot, steamy air in here. A quick -- and very, very, _very_ reluctant -- check of the eyelids confirmed it though. Despite the noticeably higher than average temperature, rigor mortis hadn't even started to set in yet. Which meant that Barner had been dead for about an hour at most.

Alex had just missed whoever had done this.

His hands were shaking when he stood up and he was sweating, pulse fluttering. He had to get out of here.Taking care not to look too closely at the blood-splattered walls, he located a small towel, snatched it from the rail and walked back to the door. There, he methodically first cleaned the sole of his left shoe before placing it outside on the carpet, then he did the same with the right. Later on, he would throw the towel away in some random dumpster.

He couldn't afford to leave obvious footprints – if the people who had done this came back they would immediately know that he'd been here.

Once again closing the bathroom door behind him, he walked back into his room and checked if any of his stuff could still be useful. The oversized black hoodie he had been planning to sleep in was untouched and he quickly pulled it on over the comparatively thin long-sleeved shirt he had been wearing before. His MI6 issued phone was smashed to bits, making calling in for help impossible. At least he still had his own phone on him. The only other marginally useful thing he had in his bag were fingerless gloves, which he swiftly pulled on as well. His wallet and his false passport were still in his back pocket.

That done, he gave all the rooms another once-over. Half of Barner's things were missing and he few items that were left wouldn't help him figure out what was going on here either. Whoever had done this [ _Weller?_ ], they had obviously been searching for something and considering that they had gone after Alex' room after they had searched Barner's, they probably hadn't found it. Alex didn't intend to still be here when they inevitably came back.

He put his [ _dead man's_ ] coat back on and left.


	9. Drive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes it's better not to correct people on their assumptions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Date: Dec. 29th - 8 pm, between Break Away and Silence (Timeline: http :// shiruy. livejournal. com/ 3602. html)
> 
> Edited: 01.07.14

Alex didn't like driving at night. He used to, back when it was usually Jack or Ian in the car with him and it was easy to relax, to give in to the sleepiness that came with the darkness outside the car. Now, though, he was struggling with the exhaustion pulling at him, sitting stiffly on the comfy leather seat of their limousine.

Barner was sitting at the other end of the seat, typing away on his phone and radiating a sense of smug success. The man had turned up nearly three excruciatingly long hours after Yassen had left Alex on the terrace and jumped right into playing his role of the concerned father who had to get his young son to bed. Alex had grudgingly played his part, biting back the complaints he wanted to spit at Barner, and let himself be hustled into the car to get back to their hotel.

The second the car door fell shut behind him the tension had fallen off Alex' shoulders, allowing the exhaustion to hit him. Playing Lloyd Williams for three more hours had been _hard_ , especially with the added uncertainty of whether Barner was even coming back at all or whether he was already dead. Alex had joined a group of other boys around his age for most of the three hours, letting their conversation do much of the work for his cover, but being so tense and on alert for such a long time had taken it out of him even so.

He wanted to slump into the seat and close his eyes, maybe doze until they got back to the hotel, but with Barner next to him that was impossible. He had already tried asking the man some questions about what happened, if he had encountered any problems, but all he had gotten in reply was that it was none of his business.

Which, seriously? Alex was here, wasn't he? How was knowing the status of the mission he was on none of his business? But he was simply too tired to fight the man on it and they weren't even at the hotel yet. Alex would try again later, when they had settled back in their rooms. Maybe Barner would be more inclined to share sensitive information with him then. And if not, well. Alex had a certain talent for snooping around, as proven in the past.

For now, he settled for staring at one of the gleaming, silver door handles and waiting until their car finally made its way through Nuremberg's inner city. His fingers drummed against the inside of his right arm, aware of the numbers on his skin as if they were a persistent itch. It had been a struggle not to look at them all night, and now that he didn't have anything else to do it was getting worse. Still, Barner was still right next to him, and if the man saw the number and grew even just the slightest bit suspicious... well, it could be bad. The last thing Alex wanted to do was give Yassen the impression that he'd betrayed him to MI6.

Then again...

He glanced at Barner out of the corner of his eye. The man was ignoring him, still typing away on his phone, probably reporting in or something. Chances were he wouldn’t even notice if Alex took a look at the number.

He bit his lip and stole another uncertain glance at Barner. The man wasn't paying him the slightest bit of attention, fully focused on his phone. Impulsively, Alex made a face at the agent and – nope, no reaction. Grinning to himself, he pushed the sleeves of his coat and jacket back, revealing a row of small, black numbers.

They were neatly running down the inside of his arm and stopping just short of the ring of pale scars around both his wrists. He had been hand-cuffed several times over the course of this last year and he could only hope that the traces of his struggles would fade with time. He wondered whether Yassen had noticed them and hoped that the darkness had concealed at least the worst of them. For a split second he remembered the way Yassen's thumb had stroked over the inside of his wrist, where one of the deeper scars was placed, but just as quickly as it had come to him he shook the memory off and focused on the number itself instead. That was what was important here.

It was made up of twenty-two digits that seemed to have no particular order to them. It was simply a string of random numbers with no area or network code recognizable. But then again, Yassen _had_ said that the cell phone he used was untraceable.

He mouthed the number to himself, letting his fingers trail over the black marks, a shiver coming over him at the sense memory of Yassen's finger brushing over his skin. The whole scene had been oddly... intimate, the way the assassin had stepped so close to him. The more he thought about it the more awkward it seemed to get.

Not that it had been a _bad_ awkward– which really only made the whole thing even stranger – but Alex still felt rather blindsided by this hyper-awareness of Yassen that had befallen him the moment the assassin had stepped into his personal space. It was unsettling.

“What’s that on your arm?”

Alex jumped and hastily pushed the sleeve back down, knowing even while he was doing it that the action was suspicious. Of course Barner would only pay him any attention when Alex didn’t want him to.

He met Barner's frown with a blank look of his own and explained, “I met this girl at the party. Steffanie. She gave me her number.”

Anyone who knew him would have instantly recognized that as a blatant lie, but Barner...

The man gave a disgusted snort, sneered at Alex and turned away, obviously finding all his thoughts about stupid, careless teenagers confirmed.

Alex held in the shaky breath aching to escape his lungs and leaned back in his seat. Sometimes it was better not to correct people on their assumptions.


	10. Breathe Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's something peculiarly peaceful about drowning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Date: No time in particular; while Sabina and her family are back in London for a visit (Timeline: http :// shiruy. livejournal. com/ 3602. html)
> 
> Edited: 04.07.14

There’s something peculiarly peaceful about drowning. Not the process of running out of air, no – there is little more viscerally terrifying than feeling yourself suffocate. But actually drowning, when you _have_ to try to breathe in and the water fills your mouth, the agonizing pressure in your chest finally easing, gently floating in the water as everything goes slow and soft... it is not the worst way to go.

He wonders what other people would think about this, what they would say. He hasn't told anyone, and doesn't ever plan to, because what does it say about him that when he was down there in the water, buried beneath a giant wave... he had felt at peace? Relieved? If Sabina hadn’t fished him out and forced the breath back into his lungs he would have died that day. And he's glad that he's alive, he _fights_ to stay alive, but if he had stayed down in the water? He wouldn't have minded dying like that.

Sometimes he wonders if this makes him suicidal or if these thoughts are just the result of all the times he almost died. He tried to count them once, but when he reached double digits he realized that he didn't actually want to know the number.

[ _He counted how many people he has killed once. He didn't want to know that number either, but he made himself count to the end. Then he went to the bathroom and threw up._ ]

He's got to be every psychologist’s wet dream by now with all the issues and traumas he has accumulated over the last year alone. Then again, his life has become so ridiculously unbelievable since last March that they would probably just put him in a straitjacket and try to treat him for hallucinations. He never even tells Jack, Tom or Sabina the full extent of what goes on during his missions for fear that they won't believe him. Maybe it's selfish, but he doesn't want to put his trust in anyone only to be disappointed again.

[ _Ash’s betrayal is a stranger's shadow dogging his steps, a deceptively small stab wound bleeding sluggishly somewhere beneath his ribs_ ]

He wants someone who knows everything about him and believes him, helps him, but how can he put that burden on any of the people around him? More importantly, how would he even get them to understand?

There is no one he trusts more than Jack but every time he tells her even a little bit he can see her doubts, her disbelief, even if she doesn't voice them. And if she _does_ believe him she gets angry, so terribly angry at MI6, at Ian, and most of all at herself. It's painful to watch her be so helpless and it leaves him feeling tired and small.

Tom, he just – he doesn't know how to _talk_ to him. It doesn't make sense because Tom's his best friend, it should be easy, but more often than not Alex feels like he might as well be speaking Chinese. He tells Tom about Point Blanc, about his heart-stopping ride down the mountain, and his fingers rub over the spot where the barbed wire fence had bit into his thigh. Tom is impressed, excited, says he wishes he could have been there, seen it. And Alex just doesn't know how to explain that _no, he really doesn't._

The reason why he can't talk to Sabina is simple. He tried, twice, and both times she hadn't believe him. She had to get kidnapped before she finally started taking him seriously, and that came at the cost of losing her as a friend. That she has turned up again over Christmas has been a wonderful surprise, but the days he spends with her only show him how little she fits into his life. He wishes he could make some kind of space for her, find a way to let her hold on to him, but he keeps slipping away. There is a deep, deep chasm between them, ripped into his life by the events of the last couple of months, and he doesn't even know where to start bridging it, is tired of trying at all.

So he stops.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm currently looking for a beta to help me with spell-checking and plotting of this story and another Alex Rider short story (Alex Rider/Wolf). Gimme a shout if you are interested. :)
> 
> I'm also on [tumblr](http://www.whatnowait.tumblr.com)!


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